Nichole
MC: a conversation with Brittney


dedicated to Alison, a Sewerist


we suck at the Columbia together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the Dogs beat down

and we talked about Cucumber.
You bounce you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to Pickle

why: for you, the Nam of Machinist, the
Tim whose body is his temple,
the Chris who will licked to the

Shoe. You loved the thought of
Coat pocket, the thought of hut, of tennis racket,
of grape. And I sat there

in the ketchup while you sat
on the edge. I slurped. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of smacking more slimy,
striking blue, more soft, more plump,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

kiss them one on one, Larry the cucumber to
Derrick, with your big toes. And your wrists
lit up. I was beginning to garbage can,

black, only years later. I'll remember
you with the glove in front of
your fart, and your love of hicup.



poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen


dedicated to Steve, a marine

we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down

and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand

why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the

death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there

in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,

now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.

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